


lambendus

by spikeface



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 20:13:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikeface/pseuds/spikeface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock explores John's body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lambendus

**Author's Note:**

> Done as a commentfic for a request.

Sherlock tapped on John's stomach, feeling the muscles twitch pleasantly, and asked, "How sensitive are you, there?"

"That tickles," John informed him, as though Sherlock cared at all about that.

"Turn over," he clarified.

It took John long, tedious seconds to register this perfectly simple command, but he obeyed. Sherlock nudged him up onto his hands and knees, pleased when John understood more quickly this time, spreading his thighs and bracing himself on his hands, staying still when Sherlock got up to get a few things.

It was always a war inside him when he left John like this. It thrilled him to know that John would wait, simply because Sherlock had told him to, that he was Sherlock's to manipulate. But he couldn't stand leaving John alone when he was spread and vulnerable; Sherlock needed to blanket at him at all times, to cut and fuck and hurt and please him so he didn't pay attention to anything but Sherlock.

In the end he only grabbed the lubricant.

John's cock was already hard when Sherlock returned. Sherlock touched it immediately, hefted it in his hand and reveled in John's tight gasp, the way he started to reach down and then stopped himself, returned his hand to the bed.

Sherlock let go, and ignored John's small noise of complaint. He did not wish to be distracted.

John was appreciatively conservative with his showers, the way any soldier of the desert could be expected to be, but he was fastidious about his cleanliness. His arsehole was pink and clean, still slightly raw from their activities of the previous night.

For one reason or another, they had fucked in the dark until now. John was, despite his other unusual proclivities, rather strict about turning off the lights before they went to bed, and all of the public spaces they had used had been dark for the purpose of cover.

This was an oversight. Sherlock intended to rectify it.

He liked looking at John, liked watching him even when he was being boring and menial and talking to other people. He liked the way John fussed with his wallet when he was nervous about money for no reason, the way he frowned over a book, even the way he went stupid over any cat that came along.

He liked John's pink arsehole and his pale arse cheeks, liked the way John shivered in the unforgiving light of morning sunshine streaming in and the halogen overhead. He ran his fingertips over the goosebumped cheeks, sensations he'd memorized into his skin but had not yet taken the time to observe. He prodded down the cleft, circling John's hole, touching the spare, curly hair around it.

John was shuddering regularly now, and his heartbeat had picked up. His shoulder probably hurt from the position, but he didn't shift at all.

It occurred to Sherlock: "You like this."

"Get on with it," said John, and he sounded irritated but he did not deny it.

He wanted to fuck John, wanted to tie him down and cut him open and perhaps choke him again -- he had liked that the last time. But he knew John would orgasm from all those things, and he wanted to discover something new now.

He spread lubricant against John's hole, felt him jump against the cool shock of it and pressed one finger in.

Distantly he recognized that John was reacting: he spread his thighs and pushed back. Sherlock slapped him on one cheek to hold him still and then watched, transfixed, as he moved his finger in and out of John's tight hole, watching it swallow him up over and over, without any resistance at all, as though it had been made for this purpose.

He added more lubricant, forced a second finger in, scissored them and pushed him in over and over. He found the prostate, pushed over it relentlessly as he fucked John with his fingers, and John pushed back onto them every time.

Sherlock was painfully hard. How had he never thought to do this before?

He startled as he felt John shift around his fingers, realized that John was reaching down to his cock again, trying to wank off.

"No," he reminded John.

John put his hand down and then his head, breathing heavily. "Give me something, then. Please."

Sherlock added another finger. John was tight around him now, grasping him in greedily but stretched under his fingertips. Sherlock's cock was bigger than his fingers, Sherlock reminded himself, and shuddered out a breath as he pictured how John would look with all the lights on, with his pink raw arsehole stretched around Sherlock's cock.

Later. Sherlock forced himself to calm, to let nothing affect his rhythm as he fucked John with his fingers over and over. "Can you come from this?"

"No," John replied hurriedly. "I really can't. Now would you _please_ just --"

"Don't you dare touch yourself," Sherlock ordered, and knew with thrilling certainty that John would obey. John was his, doing exactly as Sherlock ordered, kneeling on his bed and suffering for him, Sherlock's to please as he wished.

He needed to be closer, suddenly -- to be more, in whatever way possible. He wanted to fuck John, needed to remain in control, wanted to be as close as possible. John was so fascinating like this, endlessly appealing, oddly enigmatic, as though there were a puzzle in the arrangement of his limbs. John was a mystery Sherlock solved over and over again.

"Sherlock, _please_ ," John begged. He was dripping pre-ejaculate onto the bedspreads. His arms were shaking and he was sweating.

Sherlock leaned down. He had never done this either, in the dark or otherwise. But John tasted just like himself when he licked at the skin clamping at Sherlock's fingers, with an unappealing but faint hint of lubricant.

"Sherlock," John whispered, in the way he did when he was absolutely riveted. Sherlock was dizzyingly hard, licked again with more enthusiasm. John's skin was hot and salty, like his cock, smelled so intensely of John that Sherlock lost his breath for long moments. He nuzzled almost blindly at John's perineum, tongued the taut skin there and gripped John's thigh possessively when John shivered. John had never once trembled -- not when he'd killed a man, not when other men had tried to kill him, not when Moriarty had come so close to doing it that Sherlock himself had been quivering with rage. But he could break John down to this, a blind mess who could not help but react to whatever Sherlock wanted to do.

He tongued at John's balls, licked back up his perineum and then withdrew his fingers to replace them with his tongue. John was still gaping slightly, visibly affected by what Sherlock had done, and Sherlock pressed his tongue in easily, fluttered it until he heard John whimper.

He pulled back slightly. John had dropped down onto his shoulders, leaning heavily onto the one that had not been injured. He had laced his hands behind his back -- in order to stop himself from reaching for his cock, to keep from disobeying. Sherlock was filled with a sudden rush, wanted to see this to completion, to give John exactly what he needed and Sherlock wanted.

"Please, Sherlock," John was babbling, "Please let me come. I need it, god, _fuck_ , I need to, just let me touch myself -- please, touch me, please, Sherlock."

Sherlock knew he was digging bruises into John's thigh with his hand, trying to steady himself, but the thought of the marks he'd leave sent him into another spiral, made him blink back bright lights.

"I want you to come," he said, hoarse and low.

"I can't," John said, low and tortured. "I told you, Sherlock, I need --"

"Yes, you can." His voice hardened. He slipped his fingers back in, stroked hard. "Do it."

" _Please_ , just let me. I can as soon as I --"

"Come for me."

" _Sherlock_."

"Now, John."

John clenched around his fingers as Sherlock said his name, sputtered out come onto the bed. Sherlock refused to blink, couldn't bare to miss a second of this -- every muscle in John's body tense and shuddering, coming apart at Sherlock's command.

He collapsed when he was done, and Sherlock pulled out, moved up to the head of the bed so he could touch John's sweaty hair. John's face was slowly softening from orgasm, going lax and sated.

He would fuck John in a minute; his cock was still painfully hard.

But for the moment, he just wanted to watch.


End file.
